The Rose At War, page 37
Caia hung on as the Immolator reached full speed. Looking around, she counted the remaining tanks – one surviving Immolator, as well as their own, both Repressors, two Exorcists. If she glanced back, she could see the two fallen Seraphim, still and broken – her Sisters, fallen in battle, and never to be recovered.
She offered a silent prayer, but the canoness was still barking orders.
‘Roll call!’
The responses were coming in – Eleni, Roku, Jolantra. Briefly, Caia wondered about her own squad. She offered her thanks for their success, and prayed that they were still standing.
Behind them, the machines lumbered forwards. If they had previous orders not to leave the cavern, those orders had been superseded; as the tanks came out into the open and thundered, full-speed, back down towards the beach, the rattle and rumble of the mobile force followed them, harrying them all the way.
In the back of the Immolator, Ianthe prayed, her words rising to the brass-clouded sky.
Up there, somewhere, Captain Mulier was getting ready to fire.
Ninety seconds.
Augusta had not heard the broadcast, but she knew. And she knew that they would not have time.
At the top of the steps, Rayos was down – her fallen form was smouldering under the burned remains of her cloak. This time, it seemed, Sister Melia had finished the task.
But Vius was still upright, still fighting.
And, though it would be the last thing she did, Augusta was going to take the heretek dominus down before the Kyrus killed them all.
‘Alcina!’ She barked the order. ‘Take the squad and go! Get clear if you can!’
Despite his failure, Vius was still focused, calculated and cold. His combat strikes remained implacable, relentless, one after another…
Slash, slash, slash.
Systematically, he pursued Augusta with the axe, constantly reversing his grip so he could strike from both sides. She snarled at him, parrying the blows, her arms jarring, her feet skidding, her chainsword reaching a high-pitched scream as the teeth caught on the axe-haft. In his other hands, targeting flawlessly, the stubber and the heat weapon still struck out at the squad.
From somewhere, Rhea was shouting something, her tone urgent, but Augusta did not hear her, she was intent on Vius, looking for the opening, trying to get a strike through the tech-priest’s thought-swift defences. She was aware of the shimmer of the heat-weapon, of a dive-and-clatter as a figure in red armour rolled out of the way.
And then, something in her crystallised – pure concentrated rage.
In that split second, time seemed to slow. Her heart rate became a booming bass thrum in her ears; a new strength uncurled like light through her limbs. She would pay this heretek for every life he had taken, for her fallen Sisters, for Rufus, and for Mors. She would pay him for thinking he could take down her squad, and mock the Adepta Sororitas.
Domine, libra nos!
Despite the force field, she was gaining ground, pushing him back. The repeated strikes of the chainsword seemed to flow from her like pure song, like she had become a conduit for the entire fury of her Order. He was parrying almost frantically, sparks flying from the axe-haft.
Alcina had not left; she was kneeling beside the fallen Viola. She, too, was shouting, but Augusta could not hear through the roar of blood in her ears. The Sister Superior was reciting the words of the litany like a drum-pulse chant, rhythmic and furious with the systematic, relentless attacks of the chainsword. She let her rage fill her with pure scarlet light, with the fire that was battle-focus and absolute certainty – this thing would die.
Vius switched his axe again, striking from the other side. As he did so, she slammed it with her foot and knocked it sideways – he missed the blow and paused, just for a moment, but it was enough.
There – there! – was the opening she sought!
She slammed with the chainsword straight through his defences; his force field sparked and failed.
The blade bit home, screaming its song of destruction.
It was not enough to kill him, but his defences were down, now, and he could not free himself enough to move.
He hissed at her, all his limbs mantling high over her shoulders…
But it was too late.
Alcina was moving; Rhea and Melia were still on their feet.
Her Sisters had not left her.
And they did the rest.
Black ash, billowing in a bitter, metallic wind.
This was the limit of the tanks’ retreat – the roadway was collapsed and they could not leave the island.
The last of the machines were still behind them, lumbering down the road like monsters of nightmare, but they were not fast enough.
Ianthe shoved herself and Caia both into the Immolator’s belly, and slammed the hatch.
Over the vox, the canoness offered a prayer.
And from the clouds, there came the pure white blaze of the Emperor’s light.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rubble.
It steamed in extreme heat; smoke and dirt billowed over its charred and mountainous ruin.
But the tanks remained, tiny red fortresses at the edge of the destruction.
Rayos’ machines had not been so blessed.
Too slow, they had been caught by the wave of devastation. They lay twisted and blackened, their flesh melted, their metal crushed. A few had survived, but they had been easy to despatch.
In the belly of the Immolator, the canoness was offering her thanks for His protection.
Surrounded by the tank’s metal walls, Caia sat by Sister Rhene, her helm off, and swallowing tears – though there was no shame in grief, now the battle was over.
Rhene sat with her, the old Hospitaller’s voice gentle. She said, ‘Your Sisters died with honour, Caia de Musa. They stand before the Golden Throne, and they stand blessed. They have succeeded in their mission, and shown great courage.’
‘I know,’ Caia nodded, though she could say no more.
Rhene touched her knee, gentle, like an elderly aunt. ‘I have seen many things, Sister Caia – battles and horrors, the rot and disease of the deepest mines, creations of warp and Ruin. I understand that there are greater wounds than battle injuries – and I know He sees them also. You worship Him with warfare, but to me, He is a figure of great healing. His peace be upon you, and His light in your soul.’
‘Sometimes,’ the canoness said softly, ‘it takes more courage to survive. Fear not, Sister Caia, He has a plan for you. And He knows where you will–’
‘Please, milady!’ At the canoness’ words, Caia looked up, her grief suddenly congealing into a cold and absolute dread. She had known, all along, that this was coming, known that the canoness had another plan for her. She said, ‘Please don’t expel me from the Order!’
Ianthe blinked. She should discipline Caia significantly, but she seemed almost confused. ‘Expel you, Sister?’
‘I’m a warrior, your eminence. Have I not proven–’
‘And why would you be anything else?’ There was a distinct note of warning in Ianthe’s tone.
Caught, Caia paused, looking from canoness to Hospitaller and back. She said, the words falling over themselves, ‘Please, milady, my bloodline is too faint. I’m a second cousin of a second cousin, a grand-niece of a grand-niece. I know nothing of Spire politics. I could never be–’
‘You forget yourself, Sister.’ The snap was back in the canoness’ voice. ‘I comprehend your grief, and I share it – but you will control your outbursts.’
‘Milady.’ Caia inhaled, steadying herself, then let out a slow breath. During the battle, Ianthe had lost her distant, austere manner, and had become a figure of great passion and strength. Now, she returned to her unquestioned cold authority, and Caia, slightly belatedly, remembered her place.
She lowered her gaze, ‘Your eminence.’
Rhene cackled, and patted Caia’s knee again. ‘You’ve conjured this dread for yourself, Sister Caia,’ she said. ‘Fear not, I do not see you in a decorous robe. Look at the state of you – the Orders Famulous would never accept a Sister so downright grubby.’
She continued to cackle, and Caia, feeling immensely foolish, lowered her head in a prayer.
Augusta’s squad was a mess.
Guided by Sister Rhea’s experiences upon Mete, carrying their injured Sisters, they had taken shelter in the depths of the librarium, a place of vast and crumbling data-banks, of Vastum’s rotting knowledge and forgotten resources. As the countdown had measured their lives in remaining seconds, they’d almost fallen down the long stairway and then, with a desperate prayer, they’d thrown themselves on the floor.
And He had heard them. Shielded by the ancient Mechanicus’ stone and wisdom, scattered with falling dust and debris, the squad had survived the blast.
Battered, exhausted and filthy, Augusta had offered a hymn to His foresight and mercy, and a prayer of thanks for the miracle.
It seemed He was not ready to call them to the Throne – not yet.
They’d stumbled through half-collapsed corridors, through rubble and rock and dust; they’d almost crawled, half-blind, over the burned-black stone, and at last, they’d found the beach where the tanks stood waiting.
The canoness, Sister Caia with her, had come to meet them.
‘Ave Imperator, Sister Augusta.’
‘Ave Imperator, your eminence.’ At the limits of her endurance, Augusta pulled herself to her full height and returned the salute. She had Akemi over her shoulder; Viola was semi-conscious and being half-carried, half-dragged by Alcina and Melia; Rhea had Viola’s weapon as well as her own.
‘Sister Rhene will see to your injured,’ Ianthe said, indicating the Immolator. ‘Report.’
Right there, on the desolate black beach, the smoking ruin of the citadel behind her, Augusta gave that report. Her words were clipped, efficient, but aching with weariness. But when she reached the final battle, and the presence of the heretek dominus, Sister Alcina stepped forwards to stop her.
‘Permission to speak, milady,’ she said.
‘Granted,’ Ianthe answered.
‘Your eminence,’ Alcina said. ‘My orders were to report on the performance of Sister Superior Augusta Santorus, and of her squad. To assess whether the witch Scafidis Zale had left any touch of Ruin upon them, and to analyse their operation in the field.’
Augusta said nothing; she had known this was coming. But the fact that Alcina had spoken it openly…
The canoness, it seemed, had drawn the same conclusion. ‘I take it, Sister Alcina, that your report is positive?’
‘It is positive,’ Alcina said. ‘There is no touch of Ruin upon these Sisters, and they have conducted this mission with great courage.’
‘And what of the deserter? Mors?’
‘Both soldiers,’ Alcina said, ‘gave their lives, with honour, in the service of the Emperor.’ She made no attempt to explain further.
Ianthe nodded, her eyes still scanning Augusta. Augusta noticed that she, too, was filthy, her armour dented, her face and hair covered in smears and grit. Caia, likewise, her armour dirty and battered with impacts.
‘I am glad,’ Ianthe said, at last. ‘Glad that He has blessed you, Sister Superior. You are warriors born, all of you, and I am proud to call you my Sisters. He has blessed us all, this day – we have achieved our mission, slain both the tech-priest and her collaborator, and prevented their corrupted army from leaving this world. We have survived, Sisters, and we will return to the Convent Sanctorum to give our thanks.’ She cast a rueful eyebrow at the beach and the fallen roadway. ‘Though,’ she said, ‘I fear that may be a while. It seems He still has work for us to do.’
Grimdak liked stomping.
It wasn’t that he was big, exactly; the boss was bigger. But Grimdak was smart. Grimdak knew all the best places, all the best scraps and corners and heaps of junk. An’ besides, the boss wasn’t out here, and right now, that made Grimdak the biggest ork there was.
Da biggest ork on da walkway.
That, and his deffgun was the bestest.
Stamping down the rusting, rotting tunnels of the great hulk, his muscled shoulders catching on hanging cables and old supports, his red eyes looking for the shiny, Grimdak liked the weight it gave him. He’d made it himself, because of course he had, scavenging the ruin for some bits, trading what he found for others. Razgog’d even let him use the mekboy workshop, so long as he did some of the welding and cutting. And that meant his deffgun was ginormous. It made him heavier, stronger. And it made his stomping loud, his boots bashing good on the metal.
He liked the echoes, the banging percussion that said:
Da ork is comin’!
Faded lumens flickered at the noise, showering sparks as he passed them; they made shadows jump along the walls, shapes like threats. As his own outline fell ahead of him, he let off a burst of rounds, just because he could. It boomed and roared and deafened him, but he liked it. He liked the spank of the ricochets, the big explosions that bellowed back from the far end of the tunnel. He liked the creaking and the smashing that came after.
They told everything to get outta da bleedin’ way!
Yaaah!
His deffgun was good, turning anything to a greasy smear. Carrying it, Grimdak wasn’t scared of nothing. Not those big scuttlies – fast, but not fast enough. Not those poncy, prancy things with their stupid hair, or those ranks of boring robots. Grimdak’d even seen a Space Marine once, hiding his backside in all that snazzy armour. Hadn’t done him any good – the boss still wore his pauldrons.
Remembering the battle, he snickered round his teeth. That’d been a big one, but Zoldag Legmangla, warboss, had claimed this hulk for the Deathskullz, and he wasn’t giving it up. The Space Marine’s skull, helmet and all, sat atop the warboss’ throne.
And his boyz’d never had it so good.
Two levels down and a big bag of loot later, Grimdak stopped by a ruined control panel. Its screen was shattered, half chewed off; its wires hung loose. They were red and gleaming, spilled like guts, and he knew that colour of metal. Razgog needed it, it was good stuff for fixing busted connections.
Yanking the front fully off the thing, he poked it with a curious talon, waiting to see if it’d catapult him back down the walkway…
Was slightly disappointed when nothing happened.
In the stomp-free quiet, however, he heard a noise. A noise like boots.
Big boots.
Grimdak stopped. Legmangla’s Skullz owned the hulk, but them was boots, all right. Loud boots, metal boots. Boots that moved all tidy-like. Military boots. Not as big as the Space Marine, but big enough. They were still some distance away, somewhere down by the old genny-rators, he reckoned. But he was sure of one thing…
Them boots weren’t orks.
He frowned, scratching hard at one metal-pierced ear. Bits of snotling were still caught in it, but he wasn’t worried about that now. Fink, he told himself.
The boss’ hulk was called Da Big Mouf and it was bleedin’ huge. It was more than one ship, all smushed together and stuck like that, roaring on though the void. It had lots of different ends and bits, sticking out all over the place, plus the central vortex that had given it its name – something to do with the tangled gravities of the individual ships. The boss’ throne was a way back, on the biggest command deck; the escape pods were used by the mekboyz; and old Skalagrog preached and sparked and ranted his way through the lower tunnels. Even the gunnery decks, used for sleeping and eating and fighting, were–
Them boots were getting closer.
He scratched his ear a bit harder, then inspected his claw and chewed the filth out of it. He was too big to sneak, and, anyhow, that wasn’t the way. He was an ork, the biggest baddest ork on the walkway. With the biggest, baddest deffgun.
Yeah! Da loota wiv da shoota!
Hoiking the thing a bit higher on his shoulder, he folded down the targeter and kicked in the scanners.
I is da big ork!
An’ I is gonna finds ya!
The boots were a level below him, he reckoned, down in the old helot tunnels where some of the mangled servitors still roamed, every one of them mad as a bucket of snotlings. Sometimes, if he needed the really good swag, he went down there after them. The ladder was nearby, and though its rungs were busted, he’d be able to see straight down.
Yeah, like shootin’ humies in a barrel!
Grinning though his snaggled fangs, he stomped that way.
And then, he heard something else.
Arriving back at the warboss’ throne, Grimdak skidded to a stop in a state of almost-panic.
‘Boss!’ He was pointing frenziedly behind him, though the deffgun made it almost impossible for him to turn. ‘We gots trouble! I see’d ’em! Dey’s comin’, an’ dey got boltas, an’ shootas an’ ’eavy fings. An’ fings dat…’
Catching Legmangla’s lava-eyed glare, he shut his mouth. Backed up a prudent step.
Framed by a wealth of trophies, the warboss unfolded to his feet. Zoldag was huge, his shoulders fully big enough to fill the yellow pauldrons, his ears heavy with scavenged metal. Parts of his armour were made from black chitin, and he bore a necklace of mismatched skulls. His filed teeth were tipped in sharpened steel and covered in shreds of Gork-alone-knew-what. And his left arm was fully augmetic, ending in a four-taloned claw bigger than Grimdak’s head.
The claw had come from a Dreadnought. And Grimdak should know – he’d found the bleedin’ thing.
